The Family Business Ch. 01

Chapter One

"I'm giving you the business, son."

I stared at my father blankly. If the famous Carl Rayburn, founder and sole proprietor of Carl's Cuties Slave Emporium, had turned green and grown two heads, I might have managed a word. But this -- stunned silence.

"Oh, yeah, it's a done deal. All the t's are dotted and the i's are crossed," my father chuckled. "Carl's Cuties is now one hundred percent yours, mister business school graduate -- lock, stock and shackle. It's not news, Ty, that I've been considering retiring. Gods know, I don't need the shekels anymore. And then I thought -- what would make a better graduation present? So, son, it's yours." The old man beamed broadly and tossed a large ring of keys into my fumbling hands.

I barely kept the tangled mass of metal from hitting the floor and finally managed to find a few words. "But I don't know the first thing about running a slave dealership!"

"Of course you do! You practically grew up at Cuties."

"I've been to the lot like twice, dad!"

Carl paused. "Twice? It was more than twice."

"Twice!"

Carl laughed it all away. "Maybe you're right. Anyways, doesn't matter. Our family's been slaving for at least six generations! The biz is in your blood. I know it. And soon, so will you." The old man kept his wide smile and slapped me on the back. "I'm moving to Maui, son. Got me a nice bungalow all lined up. Sea-side and fun in the sun! I'm putting the big city behind me and going to enjoy some serenity, harmony, nature ... that sort of crap!" He let out a powerful hearty laugh. "Of course not entirely alone. I'm taking my personal slaves with me -- Brandy, Mandy and Tandy."

"Dad, that's practically the whole office staff! I have a million questions! Are you at least going to guide me through..."

Carl waved it all away. "I'd love to, son, but it's like this. I'm not getting any younger and you're a smart boy with a college degree. Hades' Holy Hell, Ty, nobody helped me start this business!"

I let the words sink in. Again -- stunned silence.

"I'm not taking everyone. I'm leaving you the dark haired one -- Sandy."

A naked stacked blonde on a leash leaned over and whispered into the old man's ear. "Sammy, sir." I for the briefest of moments was distracted from my shock by the jiggling movement of a mountain of naked, pert and largely plastic breast. Dad -- the gods know I love him -- but he was a man of simple pleasures. I believe this particular simple pleasure was named Mandy, but honestly I had never been good at telling the three blondes apart.

Dad once more waved it all away. "Sammy. Sandy. Whatever. She's yours. Smart little slave. She'll show you the ropes. Watch out for her, though. She's mouthy. Anyways, she'll run you through the day to day and make sure the dealership is ready to open on Monday."

"Monday?! That's tomorrow!"

Carl kept his smile. "Yep and my flight is tonight."

"Dad ... this is..." I was trying not to sound desperate. I was failing.

"No need to thank me, son. You deserve this. Hell, the business practically runs itself. In no time, you'll be raking in the payola. Gods know that the slave trade has been good to me. And don't worry. I'll check in on you in a few months."

"I... uh.... A few months?"

"Look son, I'd love to stay and have a few beers and get all mushy with you. But the graduation ceremony ran a bit late and I've got a flight to catch. So, tell you what." Carl shoved a thick roll of bills into my pocket. "Here's a little walking around money. Bacchus' bouncing balls, boy, I do envy you." My dad barely managed not to tear up and gave me a big hug. "You've got your whole life ahead of you, Titus Rayburn! I know you'll make me proud."

And he was gone with his three slaves in tow. Just that fast. I finally found a breath.

"Fuck," I managed at last.

...

"So, are you gonna keep it?" Marc meekly asked for the third time.

"Fuck," I said miserably into my beer. The whole bar seemed to move and seethe around me. I could find no focus. It was all too much to take in. Carl's Cuties, a multi-million denarii slave dealership, was mine. The ink on the parchment of my degree was barely dry. In twelve hours, I needed to be three hours away opening my dealership. Mine. It all spun and whirled about me.

"Of course, he's keeping it," said Gaius definitively. "I can't believe you're so miserable about this, Ty. C.C.'s is practically an institution in Cythera City! And it's yours. Not sort of yours. Not going to be yours. Mother-fucking yours. You are loaded, my man. You graduated top of your class. You've been handed a cash cow. You are going to be working with naked fucking slave girls every damned day. If you had half a brain, tonight you would be celebrating."

"The slave trade is big business," said Marc.

I took a long drink. Gaius made a good point. But then -- the crash of reality, the pressing weight of tomorrow rushing towards me. "What I've been handed is a major business operation that I know next to nothing about. Most of the staff and liquid cash are gone with dad to frolic in paradise. And I don't even have an apartment in Cythera City, for fucks sake. Oh, and if I drive the business into the ground, my dad is going to disown me."

"He didn't say he'd disown you, did he?" Marc managed meekly. "You think he'll disown you?"

"Yeah, well ... cry me a fucking river, dude," said Gaius loudly. "My dad got me a watch for my graduation present. He definitely didn't give me several hundred slave girls and a pocket full of cash."

I fumed over my beer but didn't say a word. Maybe he's right.

"So, are you gonna keep it?" asked Marc for the fourth time.

"Fuck."

"Zeus almighty!" said Gaius throwing up his hands. "Ty, if you walk away from this, not only will you piss off your dad, but you are going to regret it for the rest of your life which will be short because I will personally kill you. You are a smart guy, my friend, so stop acting like an idiot. Quit yer bitching and have another beer!"

I finished my beer in one slam. I took one piece of advice from Gaius. I ordered another.

...

At five past eight, I fumbled once more with the tangle of keys and finally finding the right one, unlocked the front door of Carl's Cuties. I entered the place for the first time in close to five years. It was bigger than I remembered -- a cavernous show room and auction block up front, offices and support buildings in the rear. I turned on the lights and was relieved to discover the place clean and in good order. During the very small amount of sleep I had managed to grab at a nearby motel, my dreams all centered on this place being either a wreck or on fire.

"You're early," said a voice up above me. I glanced upward to a catwalk above the showroom floor and had my breath stolen from me. It was a woman ... a slave. She wore high black boots that traveled half-way up her well-formed legs, buffed to an almost liquid shine. Her elegant arms were adorned with long gloves, coal black and lustrous. Around her neck was a black leather collar, simple and unadorned (though no doubt concealing the required tracking and ID chip). Besides those three items, she wore not a stitch else to conceal her athletic frame and classic features. Her hair was raven black, gently curled and long enough to hang even with her shoulders. Her skin was fair, neither pale nor ruddy, a soft warm middle pink. Her face was gentle and almost angelic. Her smile was anything but. She exuded a casual wickedness. She walked down the stairs towards me and for the second time in two days, I had no idea what to say.

She solved the problem quickly. "You must be Titus. I'm Samantha, sir."

"Right," I stammered. "Sammy."

Her eyes narrowed. "If Samantha is too long to manage I prefer Sam, please, sir."

There was something in the final 'sir' that was so pointed it almost stabbed me in the eye. "Sam, yeah, that's fine," I managed.

"Glad to hear it, sir."

Her proximity meant I could hardly help but take her measure. She was a balance of graces: athletic but curvaceous, elegant but accessible, innocent but wicked. She was well groomed though almost devoid of makeup of any sort; her only enhancements were subtle eye-liner and soft crimson lips. She was hairless from the neck down; her sex a neat orchid on display. She had obviously been a slave for a while; there was no hint of shame or shyness. If she had a flaw, her breasts were small for a commercial slave, almost boyish. Still they suited her well and from any angle there was no doubt she was all woman.

"So, how about the tour, sir?" She said interrupting my over-long stare. "Or do you need a little longer to gawk at me?"

I looked up into her sorcerous jade-green eyes. She was smirking. "I apologize."

She looked at me quizzically. "You're apologizing ... to me?"

I laughed a little. "It's kind of absurd, isn't it?"

"It can't be," she said genuinely amazed. "Am I Titus Rayburn's first slave?"

"Well, no. We had slaves around the house of course when I grew up, but..."

"They all belonged to your father," she said even before I managed to complete the sentence.

"Uh, yeah and in college... Dad thought it would have been a distraction."

"Your quoting your father, I assume."

"Yeah. It doesn't matter. I have lots of experience with slaves, is all I'm saying."

"Obviously, sir."

Gods, time to change the subject. "So, how long have you worked here?"

"I don't work here, sir. Not any more. I work for you."

"Wait. What?"

"Every other slave in this facility is owned by the company. They are company assets. Not me. When your father signed the company over to you, he made me your slave. You may not have owned a slave before, sir, but you do now. I am yours."

I could only take a deep breath. For the first time since yesterday, I whispered quietly 'thanks, dad.'

"Now, sir, would you like to see the grounds?"

"Yeah, let's do that."

"Follow me, please, sir." She turned, graceful and full of confidence. Her bare bottom was then for the first time in full view. Suffice to say, I found it easy to follow. In fact, it took quite a bit of willpower for me to notice anything else.

The tour began. "You're here earlier than I'd thought you'd manage your first day. You'll be glad for the extra time. There is a lot to see here at C.C.'s. What your father has given you is a state of the art palace for the purveyance of female flesh.

"There are lots of reasons to buy a slave, sir," Sam continued. "Laborer, maid, bodyguard, gladiator, nanny, tutor. C.C.'s doesn't stock any of those. Here, we sell only one thing. We have a lot of different names for that one commodity -- masseuse, mistress, concubine, geisha, pleasure girl and my favorite -- personal assistant. They all mean the same thing."

"What's that?"

Sam stopped and looked me straight in the eye. "Sex slave, sir. Female sex slaves in particular -- we don't stock boys, alas."

I knew that. Of course I knew that. Intellectually I had known that fact for years. It's right there on the big ten meter tall sign -- Carl's Cuties. Of course, the word 'sex slave' appeared nowhere in this building. It didn't appear on company ads. It didn't appear on the titles and deeds for each of these girls. It didn't appear on promotional banners or in the literature. But what were all of these attractive young naked girls here for?

They were here to be bought and fucked.

"This way, sir. These are what we charmingly call 'the guest rooms'."

The guest rooms, it turned out, were almost too much for me to handle gracefully. How could I be blamed? Right now the stock of C.C.'s was a little low, Sam mentioned in passing happenstance. There were barely two hundred girls on the lot. From the observation platform, I looked across a sea of nubile beauties ready for the block. They ranged across every build, hair color and ethnicity -- wanton Gallic harlots, supple Japanese courtesans, stacked Swedish sex kittens. Few were older than twenty; this was a new slave dealership after all. None were younger than eighteen. Imperial law required that. And largely, save for a few wisps of tantalizing gossamer, the subtlest hint of lingerie, they were uniformly nude save for their collars and chastity belts.

Of course, they all had chastity belts. Virginity after all was a premium commodity.

At night,they were housed here -- temporary accommodations until the sales team could place them with owners. Sam described it like a prison. I was instead struck by how closely the pens mirrored my college dorm. There was one major difference; these girls couldn't leave. The locks, electronic monitors and security made sure of that.

Our entrance garnered some minor attention from the girls below, but only brief glances. They were busy, each engaged in their own private beautification ritual. They were fresh from their training centers and desperate to be purchased. Their training and indoctrination made sure of their eagerness. Even those few that somehow avoided the brain-washing were still eager to get out of here. The fate of a slave girl who proved unmarketable was not a kind one.

Surveying the sea of flesh, I became acutely aware of my own personal needs. I was twenty two and single. A young college graduate who for the last four years had buried his social life in his studies. It had been two years since I had indulged in any sort of tryst. I was no virgin certainly. But it had been a long time.

"I don't see any local girls," I remarked. "Are they kept in another building?"

"There is no other building, sir. We deal almost exclusively in high end 'personal assistants' and that, in today's market, means imports."

"People don't buy American girls?"

"Of course they do, sir, when they can't afford an import. Anyways, we do have a few -- mostly in the used section."

"The used section?"

"Any dealership of this size has a few used slaves, sir -- older women, trade-ins, repossessions, seizures, girls who have been on the floor too long to be really considered new. And of course a few voluntary conversions."

"Wait...voluntary? People who want to be slaves?"

"Very rarely. Voluntary is more of euphemism, sir. It usually means slaves raised outside a training center and sold by their family because of financial desperation. In these hard economic times, it's all too common. We rarely keep those girls for long. We have an arrangement with Jacob Martigan's economy dealership down the street. But every once in a while, we do get a diamond in the rough."

"I see," I said, still taking it all in.

"You should pick out two or three, sir."

That stopped me in my tracks. "Yeah?"

"For the office staff. Your father was kind enough to take the bimbo trio with him to Maui. I will do all that you command, sir, but there is no way I can efficiently run the office by myself. You could select from the new stock, I suppose, but these will cost the company less. All I ask, sir, please try to pick one or two that have the semblance of a brain. I'm weary of short sentences."

"Looks like we have an intruder on the premises," said a deep powerful voice behind us. I instinctively turned and was face to face, or more accurately, face to chest, with a gigantic mountain of a man. The colossus was dressed in a crisp black paramilitary uniform with an white armband that sported the C.C.'s logo and the motto lege et lacrima -- read it and weep. His skin was deep bronze and craggy. His black hair was slicked back and tied in a pony tail. Mirror shades, ear piece and an impressive moustache completed his ensemble. The mountain smiled.

"Angelo Guzman Huerta reporting for duty, jefe. A pleasure to meet you, Mister Rayburn. And good morning to you to, La Noche."

"Morning, chief," answered Sam. "This is your chief of security, sir. Everyone calls him Jojo."

I blinked and shook the hand of one of the largest men I'd ever met. "Wow. Glad to meet you...uh, Mister Huerta."

"Jojo is fine, jefe."

"Jojo has the distinction of being the most veteran employee here at C.C.'s," said Samatha.

"Really, how long have you worked here?"

"Twenty seven years. Your father hired me after I won my freedom in the lucha libre circuit down in Juarez."

"Lucha libre? Masked gladiatorial combat?" I asked genuinely impressed.

"Yep. I fought as El Angel de la Muerta -- the Angel of Death. Good times, jefe. Anyways, I'm just completing my rounds before the shift change. If you need anything, just call." He handed me a small handset. "We use channel fifteen for security. You be careful around La Noche, jefe. She's the most dangerous thing on the lot."

Sam rolled her eyes and the mountain sauntered on its way leaving only a hearty laugh behind.

"That could be the most impressive man I've ever met," I said.

"Jojo is a sweet heart," Sam said with a shrug.

"He seemed very friendly to you. Are you two...?"

Sam stopped and barely refrained from laughing. "Are you asking your slave if she's dating?"

"Well, yeah."

"You've got a lot to learn about being a master, sir. No, we are not involved. Besides, the way he was checking you out, sir, I'd say you are more his type."

"Jojo is..."

"Why do you think your father trusted Jojo to watch his girls?"

...

We wrapped up the tour in time for me to make the sales meeting at nine thirty, thirty minutes before opening. I walked into this cavernous chamber full of veteran slave-traders and it was my job to tell them that I was there new boss. To say I was nervous was like saying Ghengis Khan was a little harsh to his enemies.

As I made my way to the front of the sales office, I got my first chance to survey the crew. Mostly they were a bunch of well-dressed, cleanly appointed professionals who looked ready to kill to make a sale. Dad had always called the sales office his "shark tank". Now I knew why.

Most were vastly my senior, gray hair and stern glances being the norm. They eyed me suspiciously, certain no doubt I was about to do something idiotic. Still, there was one who stood out: the sole female slave-trader at C.C.'s -- Desiree Romanov, the Sales Manager. That a woman had managed to attain that lofty position at all was remarkable. That she had managed to hold it for almost a decade was nothing short of historic.

Her hair was long and straight platinum blonde -- almost white. Her features were clean and angular, very Germanic actually. Her figure was vivacious and would have flattered women half her age. If we'd met at a bar or a bacchanalia, I would happily have bought Desiree a drink and eagerly flirted. Here, I'll admit, she terrified me. She was the queen shark, no doubt about that.

The school of sharks said nothing as I took the marble podium. I smiled. They didn't.

"Good morning," I said.

Stony silence was my only answer.

"Everyone knows it by now, so let me just confirm it. As of last night, I am the sole owner of Carl's. My father's gone to Maui with no definite plans to return. For some reason he's decided he prefers bungalows and babes to business. So, we're all stuck with each other."

I had meant it to be a joke. No one laughed. No one said anything. No one even coughed. Gods, I was dying up here. Okay, Ty, new approach.

"Let me be frank, I'm not sure either why my father did what he did. But I'm here. I'm the boss. Get used to it. That said, I need you. All of you. Every single gods-blessed one of you. I have no idea what I'm doing. I'll admit that. That's not your fault. But if I still don't know what I'm doing in three months -- that will be all of our faults.

"I want to learn this business. I want to know every inch of it, every nook and cranny. And to learn it, I need your help. More than anyone else here, you are the heart and soul of this operation. I know that. Show me how each and every one of you have helped make Carl's the institution that it is today. You do that for me and I promise to respect what my father has built. Now, I'm told that Miss Romanov usually handles the day to day so I'll stop wasting her time and yours and let her get to it. Thank you."